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she is as beautiful as bus tickets
giving off the scent of smog stretched
out over an ugly ocean. the seagulls
screaming out overhead, catching unhappy
girls in little black bathing suits unawares.
west is where columbus urged his men to go,
sailing away over the hump of the
end of the world where none dared venture.

this middle-of-nowhere business with no long stretch
of water and salt is not for her, her brown skin
grey with lack of sun. it's not even mid-march and
already the cloudy skies would have been stashed
away where she came from, on a greyhound bus.
the long expanse of the road giving her a crick in
her neck that never seems to have come undone.

she says she may need a lewis to her clark
to get back. i say that sacagawea may have been
a better choice. we are young and foolish, as lustful
as the young man from abydos. would she lose her
way and drown in the only ocean we had here?
the thought of throwing myself from a tower,
stupid with grief, makes me think of headlines.

the bus tickets lie in her hand, the brown of her eyes
reminding me of long days spent in bed, learning
the feel of her hot mouth lazing its way up my calves.
love is a tempest in a teapot that is put out with a good pour,
the scent of jasmine making my shaking hands calm.

we kiss without passion and the bus is soon out of sight,
i shade my eyes against the cloudy sky and wait.